


I'm With You

by SummerNightmares (BlackDog9314)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Repression, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Jared to the rescue, M/M, Made For Each Other, Teacher Jensen, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 14:16:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13812915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackDog9314/pseuds/SummerNightmares
Summary: “Come here often?” Jensen asks, using the cheapest line he knows because he thinks it’ll make him laugh.Tall-guy delivers, laughing softly into his hands as if he can’t believe Jensen actually just said that. He pushes a strand of chestnut hair behind his ear as he looks down at the table between them for a moment.He has dimples when he smiles, Jensen notices, and he looks…kind.





	I'm With You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sleepypercy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepypercy/gifts).



> Thank you [BenLMoore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/BenLMoore) for looking this over for me, and thank you generally speaking for being amazing <3  
> I hope y'all like this. It came to me out of nowhere and really had a mind of its own.

Jensen Ackles is twenty-six years old and teaches English Language Arts to freshman and sophomore students in a very small town. LaVernia is about 40 minutes southeast of San Antonio, and it has a population of a little over 1,450 people. While San Antonio is a liberal enough city that it’s almost easy to forget it’s located in Texas, LaVernia is a different animal.

Jensen regularly gets calls from parents asking for schoolwork to be sent home because their son or daughter is tending to sick livestock, ten-gallon hats are worn un-ironically, Home Economics is taught only by women, and the only black family in town is treated like a badly-kept secret. Jensen’s been living in one of the two apartment complexes in town for the past 3 years, and he still finds new things that confuse and concern him about the town on an almost daily basis. He was born and raised in Dallas, and though there were pockets of radically conservative people scattered throughout the city, there were also progressive areas and communities one could find if they simply knew where to look. But here, Jensen doesn’t think there are any.

If there were, he’d have found them by now.

His daily routine is almost exactly the same during the school week: he wakes up at 5 ‘o clock sharp every morning to run for half an hour before returning home and showering. Then he eats a couple eggs with a dab of salsa or a bowl of oatmeal dusted with brown sugar, and he always makes sure he has enough coffee in his comically large silver thermos to make it through the first few class periods.

His students don’t dislike him, but they don’t seem particularly interested in listening to what he has to say, either. The first half of the day usually feels like it goes by the fastest, and by the time his lunch period rolls around, Jensen’s ready for the diet Coke and whole-wheat sandwich stowed in the teacher’s lounge refrigerator. He sometimes tries to hang around and see what the rest of the staff is up to, but most of the educators at LaVernia High grew up together and are closer than siblings, and they rarely say anything to Jensen beyond a simple hello and a ‘how are you?’ to which they never seem to hear the response. Jensen’s been trying less and less to ingratiate himself as his second year of teaching inches toward its cumbersome end.

After lunch, Jensen waits for the last three periods to pass him by and does his best to keep the kids engaged and interested in whatever lesson he’s teaching. Every time the day eventually ends, though, he drives back home with an almost crippling sense of relief.

Once back in his one-bedroom apartment for the night, he grades papers and answers parent emails until it's dark and he has a reason to put his things away. Sometimes he eats a frozen meal or chicken and vegetables for dinner, sometimes ( _often_ , if he’s honest) he doesn’t feel hungry and instead of eating does chin-ups on the bar adhered to his bedroom entryway or pushups on the yoga mat in his bathroom. Then, he rinses off so he can lie in bed and watch TV.

Sometimes, usually around when his digital clock reads ten or eleven at night, Jensen thinks about texting or calling his friend Chad. He invariably reminds himself that Chad still talks to Jensen’s parents and sister and reconsiders, though, and he hasn’t caved yet. It doesn’t stop him from staring at Chad’s number until it blurs into a mess of black and white pixels before his eyes.

Jensen’s weekdays are practically interchangeable, and it takes little to no effort on his part to ensure they stay that way. His weekends, however, are not so neat and orderly.

When Jensen’s last period ends on Friday he typically tries to make it back to his apartment as quickly as he can, and usually manages to do so as long as he’s sufficiently planned ahead. By the time he’s fishing for the Captain America key ring in his bag and letting himself in, his skin’s often crawling underneath whatever pallid button-down he’s wearing and his dark, creased khakis.

It’s only then, safely behind the closed door of his apartment with the knowledge that he has two days ahead of him without apathetic children and his disinterested, expressionless coworkers, that Jensen can breathe in deeply enough to finally _feel_ it in the center of his chest.

It’s only then that he’s the closest to calm he comes nowadays.

After he’s made himself grade papers long enough that he doesn’t feel like he’s shirking his responsibilities (usually a few hours), Jensen makes his way to the closet in the hall and changes into tight jeans and one of the dark v-necks stacked in the upper-right corner of the top shelf before spraying himself with cologne that makes him smell like the teenagers he stands in front of all day.

Sometimes he eats, but usually food sits heavy and wrong in his stomach on Fridays when all he wants to do is go anywhere that isn’t LaVernia.

Once dressed, he gets right back into his car and drives an hour or two out to one of the surrounding cities, where he’s not likely to run into any of his students and even less likely to know anyone at all. He alternates where he visits, and by the time he returns to a particular club for a second or even a third time, it’s usually been over a month and he’s not recognized. It can get convoluted, but Jensen’s rarely bored.

Sometimes he drives longer than two hours, will top three or four if the itch under his skin is bad enough, but he still never makes it all the way to Dallas.

Jensen wishes he could say that his weekend routine is any more varied than the one that defines his weekdays, but the key details are almost always the same regardless of what club he picks.

He has a habit of ordering a couple more shots than he needs and hogging a bar stool for a few hours while the place gets increasingly crowded and loud around him. He doesn’t like the taste of alcohol and doesn’t care much what he drinks; tequila, wine, rum, vodka, beer, amoretto, it’s all indiscriminate shit on his tongue, and Jensen’s central goal is to drink enough to _almost_ enjoy the feeling of cheap, sticky vinyl under his denim-clad thighs, enough to not mind the blast of an air-conditioned draft on his damp skin as he watches bar television, enough that he doesn’t feel alone while being surrounded by people who don’t know one another any more than he does.

He’s inevitably bought drinks when he goes out, luckily, aiding greatly in his goals.

_‘This is from the lady in pink.’_

_‘Watch it, there’s a phone number on the bottom of the glass.’_

_‘’James’ says hi.’_

_‘This is from the guy in the blue shirt over there.’_

It doesn’t matter who does the honors; if someone’s buying, Jensen’s drinking. When women send him drinks, though, it’s unlikely to get them anything except a polite nod and a smile. Men, however, are like the liquor he arbitrarily throws back: Jensen’s up for anything. They don’t have to be handsome or well-dressed or funny. Hell, they don’t even have to be particularly nice. If they’re interested, Jensen is, too. He’s fucked around in bathrooms and hallways and back-alleys and cars and elevators and storage rooms; he’s been given orgasms he could write poetry anthologies about; he’s taken coke and ex and pills that made him wired and horny for hours and had sex he can’t even remember; he’s had trysts so pathetically unremarkable he regretted them after, and has also had lays so good he wishes later that he’d gotten the guy’s number. Ultimately, though, it doesn’t make much of a difference how good (or not) his partners are. That’s not the point.

Exactly what the point _is_ , Jensen doesn’t know, but with every passing week he wonders a little bit less.

Like clockwork, he walks the fine line between pleasantly drunk and plastered almost every Friday night. If he’s lucky, by the time he’s finished up with whoever’s taken him home, Jensen’s sober enough to make the drive back to his apartment and drink some water before falling into bed with his tight jeans still digging into his hips. If he’s unlucky, he spends the first few hours of Saturday finding a way back to his car and hoping he hasn’t gotten a ticket in the hours it’s been parked behind whatever bar he left it at.

So far, this weekend is turning out like any other. It’s almost the end of March and pleasantly warm out when his last class ends. As Jensen walks through the parking lot to his car, he takes his phone out of his back pocket and checks it absently. He almost stops in his tracks when he sees he’s missed a call from Mackenzie.

His sister hasn’t called him in at least five months; it might have even been longer than that if he stops and thinks it over more thoroughly. Feeling rattled, Jensen shoves his phone into his bag with unnecessary force and high-tails it to his car, wanting to get home as quickly as possible.

When he reaches his apartment less than ten minutes later, the feeling of unease dancing over his nerves ratchets up a little higher as Jensen’s greeted by the beep of his answering machine. He approaches it slowly, feeling his stomach clench as he sees he’s got three messages waiting for him.

Resolutely ignoring the red flashing light next to the small grey screen, Jensen forces himself to turn and leave the room. Instead of taking a stack of papers out of his bag and onto the desk in his bedroom, he clambers into the shower and turns the knob immediately, not caring that the water’s cold and caring even less when it warms on his skin. Jensen washes his hair twice and rubs at his face with a damp washcloth. He brushes his teeth and rinses every crevice in his body, wasting time until he emerges from the pillar of steam and water and sees he’s spent an hour in his bathroom.

After that, he tries to grade papers.

Around nine o’clock he gives up the ghost and dons his chosen shirt and favorite school-inappropriate jeans, almost forgetting a spritz of cologne and a quick finger-comb through his hair in his rush to leave for the evening.

His knuckles are white on the steering wheel as he eases his car out of the little garage beneath his apartment, absently waving goodbye to his elderly neighbor as he waits for the rickety security gate to open so he can leave the complex.

This weekend his chosen destination is a bar he’s been to before in San Antonio, and his GPS tells him he’s got a little over forty-five minutes before he arrives.

The drive itself isn’t bad. His car’s CD player’s still broken, and none of the songs he likes come on no matter which radio station he turns the dial to, but the pop currently making its way over the airwaves is dull enough that it stops mattering only a couple minutes in.

Jensen’s preoccupied and restless most of the way, tapping his forefingers clumsily on the dash and looking out at the road signs dotting the line of the interstate without truly seeing any of them. When “Over the Rainbow” comes on the radio about halfway to his destination, Jensen changes stations with a jerky motion of his fingers as soon as he recognizes it, feeling something in his middle curl and heave.

_I like every version. Does that make me silly?_

_’Course not, Ma. It’s a good song._

Jensen breathes in slowly, wishing he had water or something else to wash the bitter taste flooding his mouth. He rolls the window down not long after that.

He continually checks the number of miles left on Google maps until he’s taking the designated exit and breathing out threads of tension wound in the muscles of his chest and back that he didn’t even know he was carrying. As he parks too far back in the large lot he rolls his neck with a slight wince, feeling it pop a few times before he rubs his hands over his cold cheeks and greasy eyelids.

As he uses his key fob to lock the car behind him, his phone vibrates in his pocket a second time. Sweat starts to break out on Jensen’s skin, and he ignores whoever the call is from ( _is it Mack again? Why’s she calling? Is something wrong? Is it D_ —) as he walks toward the front double doors of the bar with only an ID, his keys, and a small wad of cash on his person. He’s let in without a fuss and casts a obligatory look around the place, trying to see if anything has changed since the last time he was here. It’s more of a dance hall than a bar; the dark ceiling is high and angled, the low lighting’s red-tinged and a cheap, easy kind of seductive, and the Wild West decoration theme is probably tacky and overdone during the day.

The Thirsty Horse. That’s what this place is called. ‘Overdone’ might be the best word for it, generally speaking. But the beer’s good, and so’s the ambience (not that Jensen gives much of a shit right this second).

Not wanting to waste any time, Jensen makes a beeline for the tall counter near the back and orders two tequila shots and a beer to start the night off. The shots are on the expensive side but the beer isn’t, and Jensen downs the liquor quickly after thanking the blonde woman who hands it to him.

He takes another look around as he nurses his Blue Moon, this one a little longer than the first. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s searching for until his eyes land on a tall man a few feet across the room from him. Jensen can only see his back, but it looks strong and solid, broad and muscled beneath a snug black t-shirt. Jensen feels his lips part as he stares at the sight for a few seconds too long. He looks back at his drink, then, shaking his head and deciding to go find a table to sit at. He feels dizzy as he takes the first step, and remembers somewhat abruptly that he hasn’t eaten all day; he overslept that morning and spent his entire lunch period grading papers.

With that in mind, he considers taking it easy on the drinks, but his phone begins to vibrate again as he turns to find a table. With some liquid courage making its way through him, Jensen feels confident enough to take it out of his pocket and glance at its screen.

_If it’s Mack, she can just try again later. It’s been a long week and I—_

Jensen’s thought goes unfinished as he sees who’s trying to contact him this time.

_Incoming call from: Dad._

Jensen presses the ‘ignore’ button and goes right back up to the bar to order a third shot. It only makes the room around him spin faster, though, and he practically stumbles over to the table he’s got his eye on, extending his arm to catch the back of the chair pushed in front of it so as not to fall. Jensen misses, however, and braces himself for the short plunge to the red-carpeted floor when a hand firmly grasps the bend of his elbow, a sizable thumb digging into the crease of his arm and _just_ keeping him standing.

Jensen exhales heavily and looks up in disbelief and gratitude, only to find that the person who caught him is the man he was admiring from the back a few minutes earlier.

A quick glance reveals that he’s one of the most unique kinds of gorgeous Jensen thinks he’s ever seen, with almond-shaped eyes, an almost delicate heart-shaped mouth, and soft-looking brown hair that falls in slight waves an inch or two past his chin. He’s wearing a fine silver chain around his neck, and he smells like soap and amber and bonfire smoke.

“Are you okay?” the man asks with what sounds like sincere concern as he reaches for Jensen’s other arm. He steadies him until he’s completely upright, his touch startlingly cautious and measured.

“Yeah,” Jensen lies easily. “I’m just drunk.” He should probably feel embarrassed about almost falling on his ass in front of the crowd of dancing bar patrons, but the tequila seems to have dulled that particular emotion. All he feels right now is the warmth of large, careful hands on his skin.

“No, you’re not,” the man says dubiously, his head tilted slightly to the side as he looks down at Jensen. He’s got a good two or three inches on him, and the realization makes Jensen feel small in a way he’s not used to.

Jensen nods in acquiescence when he would normally keep up the lie, feeling both like he should look away from the eyes focused on his and like he doesn’t want to.

“Not really. I’m just…it’s…been a day.”

He thinks of his father’s number flashing across his phone.

_Jen, it’s me. Mom’s sick._

_What? Is it bad? Do they want me to come see her? I can—_

_They…they haven’t said that. I just thought you should know. I’m sorry._

“Maybe you should sit down.”

Heat suffuses Jensen’s cheeks as he notices he’s staring into the space above tall-guy’s prominent shoulder. He looks concerned again, his eyes creased at the corners as he lets go of one of Jensen’s arms only to reposition it onto his shoulder and push him gently toward the table.

“I’m fine,” Jensen says as his palms sweat and his knees threaten to lock. Maybe he should leave. He doesn’t know if he wants to be drunk and alone at this bar now.

 “Want me to sit with you?” tall-guy asks.

Jensen’s about to shake his head again and move himself out from under the guy’s soft hands, but his phone begins to vibrate in his back pocket for the third time and instead he says, “Are you here with anyone?”

This time, it’s tall-guy’s turn to shake his head. The movement makes his long hair dance around his narrow face.

Jensen wonders what that hair would feel like between his fingers instead of why his father’s contacting him for the first time in almost three years.

“No. My friend had to leave early. I was actually gonna leave. Then I came over here.”

Jensen sits down still feeling the imprint of tall-guy’s hands on his arms, grateful that his beer’s still mostly full as he sets it on the table in front of him. The man follows with quiet ease, slipping into the chair across from Jensen with a small smile.

He has dimples when he smiles, Jensen notices, and he looks…kind.

Yes, kind is the word. He _looks_ like someone who just stopped Jensen from tumbling to the beer-stained carpet just because he happened to see it. He looks like someone who doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.

Jensen feels a dull ache in his chest that he can’t explain, and he pushes the twinge of it down until it burns somewhere in his belly.

“Come here often?” Jensen asks, using the cheapest line he knows because he thinks it’ll make him laugh.

Tall-guy delivers, laughing softly into his hands as if he can’t _believe_ Jensen actually just said that. He pushes a strand of chestnut hair behind his ear as he looks down at the table between them for a moment.

“Kinda?” he says when he looks back up at Jensen a few seconds later. “Sorta, I guess. My ex used to work here and I'd come see him.”

There’s a pause just before the word _him_ , a moment of hesitation so brief Jensen almost misses it. Then tall-guy’s watching him again, and this time Jensen knows what he’s looking for.

“I dated a guy who tended bar once,” he says. “His schedule was fucked.”

The relief on tall-guy’s face is visible, and he nods with another little smile.

“It’s true,” he agrees.

Jensen knows all too well what can happen if you say the wrong thing to the wrong person. The times he’s miscalculated and gotten himself thrown out of bars or house parties taught him over and over to keep certain things held close to his chest unless he was willing to take the risk. He learned that lesson young, and he learned it well.

Jensen leans forward slowly. When he speaks, it’s almost a whisper.

“You wanna buy us a drink?”

 

“You taste like—like sugar,” tall-guy gasps into Jensen’s mouth almost an hour later where they’re pressed against the side of a car out back.

They’re kissing and have been for the past few minutes, and the firm body tangled around Jensen’s feels like a blanket or a picture frame, shielding him from the wind and the dark and the faint music coming from inside the dance hall.

“’S those shots you got,” Jensen murmurs. The lips on his are soft and wet and taste as pink and young as they look. He doesn’t know if he’s been kissed so eagerly since becoming an adult; this feels like being in high school again, frantic and familiar in a way it shouldn’t already be. Tall-guy’s got his big arms wrapped around Jensen so tight he can barely breathe, and he thinks he likes it that way. He’s lightheaded again and drunk and infatuated with the way it feels to be so completely enveloped in someone the way he is now.

He feels _wanted_.

When tall-guy drags his lips away from Jensen’s mouth and down the line of his neck, Jensen tilts his head back and exhales raggedly. The stars are bright in the black silk of the sky when he opens his eyes and looks up.

_If you know how to find the North Star, you’ll never be lost._

_I won’t lose my way, Dad._

Jensen shudders hard enough that tall-guy rubs his hands down Jensen’s bare arms as he continues pressing kisses to his neck.

“You wanna head back to your place?” Jensen asks as he breathes around what feels like a river stone in his throat.

He wants to get fucked, now, wants to be laid out flat on his belly as tall-guy gives it to him so hard he hurts for days after. He wants to stop thinking and start feeling.

“Do you—do you feel comfortable with that?” tall-guy asks haltingly. “I know we just met and everything, and I want you to feel comfortable—”

“It’s fine,” Jensen cuts him off as an inappropriate bubble of laughter threatens to spill from his wet lips.

 _Comfortable_. He told tall-guy in the bar that he’s a high school teacher and the town he lives in. He told him what his favorite book is ( _100 Years of Solitude_ ). He told him he wants to write one day.

He’s never told his bar hookups any of these things; he’s passed comfortable and gone straight to desperate, and it’s an obvious testament to how fucked he is right now that he didn’t turn around and leave the second he told tall-guy about his favorite part of living in Texas.

 “Do you want to know my name before we go, at least?” tall-guy asks as he pulls away for a second and looks down at Jensen, his gasoline-rainbow eyes wide and earnest.

“What is it?” Jensen asks, truly surprised he hadn’t remembered that they never exchanged them. He guesses it’s easy to forget since he knows tall-guy’s favorite color (purple), his area of study (pre-med), and his dogs’ names (Harley and Sadie).

“I’m Jared. I live ten minutes away. We’re on my car right now.”

“I’m Jensen. Let’s go.”

 

Jared’s apartment is a little bigger than Jensen’s, and there are overgrown potted plants and books of varying sizes scattered everywhere, as well as two blonde dogs sleeping piled atop one another in a hilariously large padded kennel. There are pictures of what Jensen guesses are Jared’s family and friends on his walls and short, superfluous mantle, and it smells like dog and laundry detergent.

The apartment, like Jared himself, feels safe and inviting, and Jensen feels like both an imposter and a guest as he takes a quick look around. But he’s not here to admire Jared’s design sense, and Jensen closes the door behind them and waits only the few seconds it takes for Jared to drop his keys onto the coffee table before he pulls him down for another kiss, swallowing whatever words Jared tries to say and licking them clean.

Wanting only to pick up where they left off, Jensen kisses Jared hard and messy, pressing him back against the wall and fitting their hips together. Jared’s body is warm and trembling against his, and he’s covered with a thin sheen of sweat when Jensen presses his cold hands beneath the hem of his shirt.

Jared’s skin is hot and smooth the way Jensen thought it might be, and he closes his eyes and traces the shape of Jared’s back, the length of his spine, the dimples above his hips and the coarse trail of hair down his flat stomach. Jared sighs into Jensen’s mouth, reaching up to cup the back of his head and drag him closer.

“I—I—can you fuck me?” Jensen asks quietly as Jared slips a thigh between his legs.

He means to demand it with confidence, to let Jared know in no uncertain terms that he expects to get what he wants, but instead it sounds like he’s begging.

But Jared nods, the tip of his nose soft against Jensen’s cheek. He reverses their positions and flips Jensen so that he’s the one pinned to the wall, then moves his hands down and back to grasp Jensen’s hips and heft him up without warning.

Jensen lets out the smallest gasp of a moan, most of it lost in Jared’s mouth as he holds onto the other man’s neck with a grip he knows is probably too tight, closing his eyes and praying he isn’t dropped as he’s carried to what he guesses is the bedroom.

Jared lays Jensen down on what feels like a full mattress, the blankets on it soft and worn beneath his hands as he spreads his fingers over the fabric. He can feel Jared’s hair falling onto his face like silk as he bends to resume their kiss. Jared drapes himself over Jensen’s body on the bed gradually, the weight of him comforting as it grows heavier in the dark.

“You smell so good,” Jared whispers as he runs his fingers through Jensen’s short hair.

“C’mon,” Jensen says softly.

Doing as he’s asked, Jared starts to unbutton Jensen’s jeans a couple seconds later. Jensen lifts his hips up from the bed to make it easier, reveling in the warmth of Jared’s fingers as they slip within the loosened waistband and over his bare skin. Jared presses more kisses to Jensen’s neck as he tugs his belt from its denim loops and tosses it to the side.

“Do you have a condom?” Jared asks as he’s pulling Jensen’s jeans down over his hips.

Jensen pauses, then shakes his head. “No.”

Jared sounds apologetic then. “I, uh, don’t think I have one, either. ‘m sorry. Do you want to—”

Jensen shakes his head again. “I don’t care. ’s fine. Please.”

His head starts to pound as he closes his eyes, suddenly wondering if his phone’s receiving any more calls.

“I…I’m sorry. I don’t think it’s safe. I don’t have sex unless I have one. But we don’t have to do that. There’s other stuff,” Jared offers.

Jensen looks up at the shape of Jared above him, his mind whirring to a crunching halt.

“What’s it matter?” he asks.

Jared’s still got gentle hands on Jensen’s inner thighs. “What?”

“I got tested last week. I’m clean. Doesn’t matter to me if you’re not. If you wanna, I’m down.”

It’s true. By some miracle of god Jensen’s clean of everything except a crippling lack of self-esteem, but if he’s honest, it doesn’t make a difference to him if he stays that way.

Jared’s face falls noticeably enough that Jensen can see it even in the dark, and he moves his hands away. Jensen feels cold and stupid in their absence.

“You…should take care of yourself,” Jared says slowly, his words uncertain and halting.

Jensen feels heat fill him, unpleasant and prickly. He closes his eyes at the words and turns his head away.

“I’m gonna go,” he says as he tries to slip out from under Jared’s big teddybear body.

“Jen, wait,” Jared says, reaching down to grasp one of Jensen’s forearms. “I wasn’t trying to piss you off. I just mean _I_ haven’t been tested recently. I don’t wanna put you at risk, man. It wouldn’t be fair.”

_I’m not trying to hurt you, Jen, but I don’t know what you expect me to do. I can’t support your—_

“Fuck off,” Jensen says through gritted teeth, jerking his arm from Jared’s grip.

Jared gets the hint this time and quickly climbs off of him, his hands up.

“You don’t have to go. I—I don’t want you to,” he says, but Jensen shakes his head.

In less than a minute he’s pulled his pants back on and is heading out the door, making his way down the concrete stairwell. His heart is racing in his chest and he might have his hand pressed tightly over it, he’s not sure. But he can hear his pulse in his ears and he feels like he can hardly breathe. He feels torn down the middle and doesn’t know why.

He wishes sometimes that he’d been born someone else.

He has lots of wishes, though, and wishing doesn’t change a thing.

“I’m sorry,” he says to his empty hands. “I’m sorry.”

By the time Jensen realizes he’s left his phone and belt upstairs a few minutes later, Jared has come down to stand beside him on the sidewalk just outside the apartment complex. Jensen’s phone is in one hand, and the strip of brown leather is in the other.

“Your dad’s calling,” Jensen hears him say.

Without looking over at him, Jensen takes the phone out of Jared’s hand, wondering why he’s shaking so badly as he holds it in his lap.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Jared asks, “Can I touch you?”

Jensen nods without conscious deliberation and Jared crouches next to him on the concrete (Jensen doesn't remember sitting), wrapping his arms around Jensen’s shoulders.

He sobs into Jared’s broad chest, is probably soaking his shirt through, but it doesn’t seem like Jared cares. He just holds Jensen and rubs his back.

When Jensen finally stops crying, Jared pushes a piece of hair from his eyes.

“You wanna come back upstairs and go to sleep?”

“Yeah,” Jensen says numbly. “I’m…I’m so tired.”

Jared’s hand is warm and gentle around Jensen’s as he leads him back up the stairwell.

 

Fin


End file.
